


Juxtaposition

by prototyping



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Caretaking, Dimitri Week 2019, Friendship, Gen, General
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:20:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21859720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prototyping/pseuds/prototyping
Summary: She shouldn’t be here. Her gentle voice and lotion-smooth hands and neatly tied-back hair smelling faintly of flowers don’t belong in this run-down dump, the shadowed skeleton of a world she shouldn’t ever have to see.[Done for the prompt “Modern AU” for Dimitri Week 2019.]
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Mercedes von Martritz
Kudos: 34





	Juxtaposition

She shouldn’t show up five minutes early as she always does, parking her car in a dark lot and making her way as discreetly as possible across the one-way street.

She shouldn’t trust him to be watching her, ready to step in if any of the nearby shadows move towards her. He always is－he would kill for her in a heartbeat－but that doesn’t make him trustworthy and it doesn’t make her wise for putting her safety in his hands.

She shouldn’t smile when he melts out of the shadows, or step quickly towards him to start looking him over with concern, as if he’s still the friend who will smile back and greet her with warm familiarity. His text indicated that it wasn’t an emergency, but she knows him too well to trust his judgment when it comes to self-care and it shows.

“How far are we going? Should I drive?” Mercedes’ voice is the same soothing shade of gentle that he’s always known it to be.

Dimitri steps past her. “Not far,” he answers shortly. She follows, of course, even though she shouldn’t.

It’s an abandoned convenience store this time. At a glance it looks as dead and vacant as it was before he found it, but after ducking past the chains on the back door there are a few signs of life in the far corner: his bag, a crumpled set of bloody clothes, the remains of what food he’s been able to stealthily procure. The place is filthy and crumbling, useful as little more than shelter from the elements.

“Dimitri,” she breathes sadly, traces of well-intentioned reprimand in the word. He ignores it and shrugs off his coat. Her soft eyes move instantly to the stained rag tied around his bicep, and from there her meekness takes a backseat. She pulls over a cracked lawn chair and guides him into it with her featherlight touch, and then places her large purse on an empty shelf and begins digging through it.

“Hold this, please,” she says a minute later, and presses a flashlight into his good hand. He shines it as directed and watches as she peels his makeshift bandage away from his skin, her frown deepening. “When did this happen?”

“This morning.” He doesn’t meet the glance she shoots him.

“You should have called me sooner.” Even when she’s stern, her voice is about as threatening as a warm breeze. “There’s only so much I can do if it gets infected.”

Dimitri doesn’t reply. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before and nothing he wants to talk about again.

Too used to his stubbornness to push, Mercedes falls silent to concentrate on scrubbing at the dried blood with a hand towel. He grits his teeth when she liberally applies some antiseptic along the full length of the gash, and again when she grips his elbow and turns his arm slightly this way and that, inspecting the damage.

“You’ll definitely need stitches. But they won’t do much good if you overwork this arm.”

“Do it, then,” he growls. Her fingers loosen, but they linger on his skin for a couple unnecessary moments before withdrawing.

She produces a curved needle and a spool of sterile thread from her bag. Once, while filling the silence with idle chatter, she told him that the hospital routinely throws out any supplies that reach the manufacturer’s expiration date, even if they’re perfectly usable. Fortunately for him, it’s how she’s been able to keep a small cache for personal use. She would never steal the supplies otherwise; she would sooner overpay for those same items out of her own pocket for his sake.

Dimitri watches her wipe either side of the wound clean with delicate movements before pulling on a pair of disposable gloves. She sits sideways on his knees as she tells him where to point the flashlight, and then leans closer to start putting him back together.

He watches her work. The pinpricks are unpleasant, but they’re background noise compared to the fire in his injury. He concentrates on her rhythmic, precise movements, eventually losing interest halfway through and looking at Mercedes herself, the total concentration on her soft features.

She shouldn’t be here. Her gentle voice and lotion-smooth hands and neatly tied-back hair smelling faintly of flowers don’t belong in this run-down dump, the shadowed skeleton of a world she shouldn’t ever have to see.

She shouldn’t have to dirty her slender fingers with sewing his bloody skin closed－the same fingers that taught him how to cross-stitch in high school when he faced failing home economics.

She shouldn’t take time out of her life for his sake, not when he stepped so readily out of hers years ago.

She shouldn’t cater to a fugitive’s needs while asking nothing in return for her work and her silence.

But she does.

Mercedes straightens up when she finishes, snipping off the extra thread and carefully applying some ointment over the puckered skin. “Try to avoid using this arm too much,” she instructs as she winds a strip of gauze around his bicep. “Keep it dry for a day, and then clean it with water and soap. Gently,” she adds with a knowing glance at his face. “If they tear or it starts oozing, or the pain gets worse, let me know.” She slides off of his legs and back onto her feet. “I’d like it if you kept me up to date so I can remove them, but I’m sure you’ll manage on your own.”

She sounds more disappointed than accusing. It almost stings as much as the wound does, but it doesn’t make Dimitri rethink his intentions. It’s for her own good that she stays away from him; even meeting like this is risking too much.

Neither should he get too comfortable around others. It’s best if he keeps moving alone as he’s done for the last four years, looking out for no one other than himself.

He rotates his shoulder experimentally. The movement tugs on the stitches and his muscles still throb, but it’s manageable compared to before.

Mercedes pulls something out of her bag and approaches him again. “One more thing,” she insists before he can stand. She moves behind him and, without asking, eases his eyepatch over his ear and off－which is fair, he thinks, since she’s the only reason he still has his right eye, blind though it is. She brushes her fingers through his shoulder-length hair, and then begins gathering the messy strands back from his face.

“I think it’s long enough now... You’ll probably avoid injuries better if you can see,” she teases. There’s some gentle tugging as she ties it back, and even Dimitri has to silently agree that it’s practical. She steps around again and inspects him with a smile and clap of her hands. “I think it looks good on you!”

He swallows the impulse to say that he doesn’t care how it looks, and then just climbs to his feet with a muttered, “I’ll send you something when I can.”

Mercedes slowly shakes her head. “I don’t want your money, Dimitri,” she says solemnly. She holds out his eyepatch and he reaches to take it. When she places her hand atop his to hold him lightly in place, he doesn’t knock it away. She doesn’t speak, but her eyes say plenty.

The only kindness he can offer is to hold the look for a long moment—an acknowledgement of her feelings, even if he won’t listen to them. He can’t get her to understand that he’s too far into this underworld, too deep in his sins, to pull back now. She can’t fathom what it means to run on nothing but hatred and the thinning hope of satiating it, nor how the dream of anything better for himself is just that: a dream.

And she shouldn’t have to. A nurse dedicated to saving lives is worlds above a wandering assassin resigned to taking them. Even meeting halfway like this is so much less than she deserves.

Dimitri slips his hand free. She doesn’t stop him.

“I’ll walk you back,” he says simply, tonelessly.

Mercedes smiles sadly, pleased with that much.

As he watches her car disappear around the corner minutes later, he almost hopes it’s the last time.

She shouldn’t come again. She shouldn’t even answer him the next time he texts her with nothing but a time and location, assuming he lives that long.

But he knows she will, again and again for as long as he needs her to. As much as he wants to call it weakness, he knows her kindness drives her just as much as his hatred drives him.

Perhaps he’s the weak one, he thinks, for choosing the easier of the two.


End file.
